Always in the kitchen at parties
by sap1066
Summary: He was at a party. He knew he was at a party because he was in the kitchen. Nine/Rose. Sex. Romance. Washing machines.
1. Chapter 1

He was at a party. He knew he was at a party because he was in the kitchen. He knew he was at a party because he was in the kitchen, on his own, with half a pint of flat lager in a plastic glass near his left hand.

A girl entered the room and he felt his body tense immediately, a little fluttering starting in his stomach. She was of average height, averagely built, averagely blonde, and far too young to be his type. She was attempting to strip the foil from a bottle of white wine. She smiled at him brightly, and he reconsidered what he thought was his type.

'Seen the corkscrew?' she asked, in a distinctive, almost cockney accent.

He looked around, realising that this wasn't his kitchen, and certainly not his house either, and pointed to a likely looking drawer. 'Try in there,' he suggested, noting the fact that he wasn't, in fact, also cockney.

She opened the drawer, located the corkscrew, handed the bottle to him to open as if either a) she was accustomed to handing him things, or b) he was accustomed to opening bottles. He struggled with the mechanism, tried not to let her see him struggling, wished for a more effective solution to opening things than a couple of bits of metal and plastic.

She leaned against the counter, watched him try his best. 'I'm…um…Rose,' she offered, with a slight frown and a hesitation he thought unusual before she said her name.

He gave her the bottle back, opened, albeit untidily, and offered his hand for her to shake. 'I'm,' he started, and then realised he had no idea what his name was, or, for that matter, where he lived, what he did for a living, whose kitchen this was, or what he was doing at a party when he was clearly not having a good time. 'Pleased to meet you,' he finished lamely.

She shook his hand, and the touch of her fingers was almost familiar, although he was sure he'd never met her before. She favoured him with a quizzical smile. 'Hello, Mr Pleased To Meet You. D'you want some wine?'

He wasn't sure, but he thought anything would be more palatable than flat beer so he nodded, watching as she rummaged in the cupboards to produce two glasses. She handed him one and raised her own. 'To — whoever's party this is.'

He clinked her glass. 'Don't you know?' he asked, properly interested in her answer.

She shifted to stand next to him and looked down at her shoes. He could see the dark roots of her hair, the smooth swelling skin in the v of her red v necked top, and decided that if he had a type, she was definitely it. 'I don't remember,' she admitted. 'I don't remember why I came either, or how I got here. Or why I'm wearing trainers when everyone else is in cocktail dresses.' She flashed him a look from under heavily mascaraed eyelashes. 'So — what do you do when you're not hiding in kitchens?'

He honestly couldn't remember, looked down at the green jumper and black jeans that he was wearing for inspiration and then decided he didn't want to answer the question. 'I'm not hiding. I'm just passing through.'

She gave him an amused little grin. 'Nobody 'passes through' a kitchen at a party — it's a state of mind, not a place to be. Where's your friends? Wife? Girlfriend?' She winked. 'Boyfriend?'

He grinned back, glad that he couldn't remember having any of those things. 'Why the interest?' he queried, matching her mood. 'You volunteering?'

She leaned back a bit, gave him a very frank, appraising stare that ran from the tips of his black boots, up his legs, lingered a bit at his crotch, over his chest and back up to the eyes in his now slightly heated face. She shrugged, took a sip of her wine, and with practised grace, began flirting. 'You might be my type, you might not. It's too early to tell.'

He crossed his arms, but relaxed a bit. 'And how long does it usually take before you know?' he inquired as she ran her assessing eyes over his body again.

'At least a minute,' she replied, drinking.

He felt himself falling, couldn't tell if he wanted to stop. Couldn't remember a reason why he should stop. 'Only a minute? What can happen in a minute?'

She gave him a sidelong glance, responded. 'Kiss me, and find out.'

He couldn't remember why kissing a pretty girl who had asked him to might be a bad idea, so he put down his glass and he did. Her lips were plump, and warm, and tasted faintly of wine, but it didn't take nearly as long as a minute for him to lower his mouth, brush against hers gently, and then pull up and away. He saw her shiver, ever so slightly, as he backed off and she nodded sagely.

'No, you're definitely not my type.' He was unaccountably disappointed, swirled the liquid around in his glass as she continued. 'My type of man — the type of man I usually meet — would have taken that as an opportunity to stick his tongue down my throat, at the very least, if not go for a bit of groping. You're not like anyone I've ever met.'

For some reason, he was sure she was right, and the thought brought a smile to his face. He drained the remainder of his wine for courage. 'Good,' he answered. 'Not that I wouldn't have enjoyed the tongue, or the groping.' One eyebrow raised, he returned her stare. 'Just for information.'

She blinked. 'Just for information — so would I. Shame you're not my type.'

But she put down her wine and stepped boldly between his legs as he leaned against the worktop, her hips pressed into shockingly close contact with the front of his trousers. She put her arms around his neck, as he frowned. She explained. 'This is a party — isn't enjoying ourselves compulsory?'

Her mouth open, she kissed him, the tip of her tongue darting between his teeth. He swallowed down his surprise, closed his eyes, and slid his tongue inside her mouth. And then, because she seemed to be expecting it, he put one hand on her backside, and the other up her top. He remembered how to kiss, at any rate, tilting his head and trying to explore her tonsils, matching the thrusts of her tongue as she penetrated his mouth, but the overwhelming impression he had of her was heat. An almost burning warmth where their lips met, and a heavy softness under his hands.

Her nipple raised quickly with the encouragement of his thumb, and he inched his fingers under the lace of her bra to pinch it tightly, running his hand over the textured flesh that surrounded it, and then pinched it hard again. He heard her moan, felt her push her breast into the palm of his hand and his body responded —hardening within his jeans. He grasped the round curve of her backside quickly, then drifted across her bottom, reaching for the valley where her legs met. His hand inserted itself as far down, and between her thighs as he could reach, and he felt a hot moistness against his fingers.

With a jerk, and an insistent pressure, he forced her hips directly against his erection, and her kissing faltered slightly. Her arms tightened then, and there was that muffled moaning noise as her tongue buried itself in his mouth, and her body began to move as she rubbed herself deliberately against his length, raising up and down on tiptoes. He spread his legs wider, enjoying the little ripples of excitement spreading through his stomach. Breathing hard, she pulled away, her cheeks a bit flushed and her eyes sparkling.

'Maybe you are my type,' she remarked in a low voice, without stopping the grind of her pelvis against his trousers.

'Let me get my coat,' he said, 'and we'll go and find out.'

She stepped away, and he took her hand, naturally, easily, like he'd done it before a thousand times. He was almost entirely convinced that he did have a coat, that he wore it a lot, and that there was no chance of him leaving without it.

Across from the kitchen was a door that led into a darkened room, like some sort of cupboard, with a washing machine skulking under an enormous pile of coats. She closed the door behind them, leaving the only light to creep through a crack underneath.

'I'll just wait over here while you look, then,' she said, pushing past him in the blackness and he felt both her hands give his backside a possessive squeeze.

He heard the unmistakeable sound of a button being undone, and he stopped breathing, so his ears wouldn't have any distractions. The ticking noise of a zip easing open followed, and then some shuffling and the creak of the washing machine as she leant against it. He heard a soft, wet noise and a faint sigh, and in the darkness a distinctive scent caught in his nostrils. Stretching out with his hands, he sought the source. His questing fingers met bare flesh, round, smooth, naked flesh, the curves of a woman's bottom.

It was moving, just slightly, and it didn't stop moving as he touched it. His fingers slid higher, up to her hips as she bent forwards over the washing machine, her legs apart and her exposed backside extremely available. He tried to slip his hands around her waist, to trail down her stomach and explore the rest of her nakedness. But he was stopped by her arm. He followed her sleeve down between her legs, inching along the fingers she had pressed into her groin, fingers she was moving. She sighed again.

For a quick moment, he rested the whole of his larger hand over her smaller one, cupping the crinkly hair poking out under her palm. With his other hand, fumbling awkwardly, he undid his own jeans, pushed them, and his underwear down around his ankles, and rested his cock against her bare bottom. She sighed again, and spread her thighs wider. Deliberately, he manoeuvred his digits into the open slot between her legs and helped her to finger herself.

He found she was already swollen, slippery, and he matched the rhythm she was working, except that he pressed down harder, and rubbed and rubbed at her faster, until she gave up and took her hand away. She sighed again, louder this time, and he exchanged the fingertip he had covering that sore little ridge for the length of his whole hand, dragging his middle finger up and down firmly.

He felt her shift, raise herself, and then, her dirty fingers were in his mouth, and he was sucking the taste of her off her hands. He felt himself rigid against her, his excitement starting to leak out and with his free hand, forced his cock between her thighs. Not inside her, not yet, just sliding around the entrance to her body, just so she could feel what he was going to be giving her very, very soon. He thrust his hips in and out a bit, taunting, and he felt her shiver against him, close her legs around his erection.

He raised his finger to her clit again, and gave it some serious attention. He could feel the little ball of skin under his hand, came down on it hard, and then dragged it up again, and then again, and again, while her thighs clenched, straightened, and she moaned. He forced his hand against her roughly, and she seemed to like it more, yanking her hand out of his mouth and smacking it down on the washing machine as she braced herself.

He picked up the pace, his hand worked at her in a pattern that he quickly lost, descending into a frenzied, hot, out of control vibration that circled her throbbing flesh round and round. The more forcefully he stroked her, the more she gasped, until eventually, his own arousal was too much to bear and he knew he had to have her now, or waste himself all over the carpet. Leaning back, adjusting his position, he pushed his other hand between her thighs and moved her legs apart again, hoisting her hips up and forward so that she was half lying on top of the washing machine. With a good, solid motion, he drove up inside her. She was tighter than he was expecting, hot, and so, so wet, and she actually cried out when he felt himself enter as deeply into her as she could take.

He edged out, dived in again, marvelling at the way she gripped his erection and let him feel every single point of friction where their bodies ground together. He bent her forward into a better angle, his other hand coming up to massage her breast. After a couple of experimental shoves, he found he could concentrate, and even remembered to rub with the hand still pinioned between her legs as he fucked her, fast and hard, pumping away in the darkness as she writhed beneath him. He probed her sticky depths for that place that would turn her moans into shouts, satisfied when he plunged back in, and heard her grunt, holding her breath as he picked up the pace.

Only a couple of minutes later there was a sharp cry, and a wicked contraction of her legs, and she was coming, shaking violently, dousing him in sudden wetness that made his cock glide easily inside her. He felt pleasure gathering in his loins and it exploded out of him in a rush of ecstasy, and adrenalin, and endorphins, and a cocktail of other chemicals that delivered the taste of blood behind his teeth, and the picture of a strange blue box into his mind. After a period of post climax quivering, and a dawning realisation of who he was, what he did for a living — although a jumper and jeans didn't seem very glamorous for saving the universe — and a feeling that this was the best time he'd had at a party in ages, he cleared his throat.

'Um, Rose?' he asked, uncomfortably aware of the erection softening inside her.

'Yes Doctor?' she responded, sounding more than a little aware of it too.

'Do you get the impression that someone is trying to distract us while they steal the TARDIS?'

It was the best explanation he could come up with for the confused memories he had of landing somewhere, meeting some overly curious half mechanical lifeforms and then the sky going black.

She swallowed, noisily. 'Probably. You're probably just imagining this.'

He snorted. 'Me? I'm not the one who could still remember her name. If this is anyone's imagination, it's yours.'

She sniffed. 'You're still not my type.'

The blatant lie, and the fact that he was still actually jammed inside her when he could now remember all the reasons why he shouldn't be, were quite arousing. To his surprise, and chagrin, and guilty enjoyment, he felt himself stiffening up again. She felt it too, and he heard that familiar little sigh. He arched his hips forward, filling her a bit more. She pressed back against him.

'Do you need another minute to decide?' he inquired, politely, deciding she was going to get at least one more opportunity to change her mind before the party was over and he had to go and find his own kitchen.

Read my books, The Postman's Daughter and The Car Crash Bride by Sally Anne Palmer, available now on Amazon.


	2. Chapter 2

It was Sunday morning. She knew it was Sunday morning because the sunlight burning its way through the sheer curtains was bright enough to hurt her eyes. She knew it was Sunday morning because she was in bed, on her own, with the faint sound of a radio echoing down the polished wooden hallways, filling up the spare, white washed rooms of this rented beach house with borrowed noise. He'd clearly got bored of waiting for her to wake up and had gone to listen to the news in the kitchen, utterly incapable of not wanting to know exactly what was going on, even though he was supposed to be on holiday.

She stretched, leisurely, taking care to flex every single muscle and brush off the last fingers of sleep. She hoped for breakfast in bed, or a cup of tea at the very least, feeling quite satisfied that it was somebody else's sheet that she might be spilling jam on, somebody else's job to sweep the crumbs off the floor. She couldn't exactly remember the last time he'd brought her breakfast in bed though — maybe it was so many years ago she'd forgotten, or maybe he never had. But then, she was having some trouble remembering where they'd been the night before as well, let alone the history of a longstanding relationship.

Her hair smelled faintly of smoke, and her thighs were aching slightly, so she'd clearly been doing a lot of exercise, dancing maybe, or at the very least some aggressive standing up. Leaning over she could see her jeans trailing on the floor, which narrowed down the options to a pub, or something similarly relaxed like a house party. Except that the location of the pub, or the owner of the party were swaddled in a haze of not knowing that she could only attribute to too much alcohol. It wouldn't be the first time she'd woken up in a strange bed with no memory of how she got there. She had a brief adolescent moment of panic that the person who usually filled the black trousers slung over the end of the mattress wouldn't turn out to be the person she was expecting until she realised that she was totally hangover free.

In fact, she doubted there was any amount of spirits she could consume that would make anyone else apart from him a prospect of the waking-up-in-bed-with variety. She enjoyed a good flirt as much as the next girl, but there was only one person whose home she was ever going back to. Although she couldn't quite remember his address at the moment, or what his house looked like, or whether his bed had white sheets on it like this one, with the sound of the sea leaking in around the window frames. The only thing she was quite certain of, was that she was on holiday, doing the tourist thing, seeing the sights, and that it was Sunday morning.

The smell of burnt toast insinuated itself into her nostrils, disrupting her daydreams with a dreary real life monotony. He hadn't gone out for his run then. He did a lot of running. He was always encouraging her to run with him, but she tried to avoid it unless it was strictly necessary. He did not do a lot of cooking. Periodically even the domestic practicalities of toasting bread escaped him. She sighed heavily, feeling another trip to the supermarket coming on. She'd be in charge of buying - he was hopeless with money too — and he'd be in charge of driving. He never let her drive, refused even to let her navigate, although they frequently got lost and had even crashed on the odd occasion.

The slap of his footsteps against the floorboards as he approached the bedroom distracted her from her shopping list and swiftly, she rolled over onto her front, putting her arms down flat by her sides, and prepared to feign sleep. The last thing she wanted was to be forced into another one of his 'fun' daytrips — no matter where they went something always seemed to go ever so slightly wrong. Staying in bed was a far more attractive proposition on a Sunday morning. Running this through in her head, she decided to make it even more attractive.

Sitting up, she ripped off her pyjamas, retrieved the half used bottle of her favourite scented body lotion from the drawer in the bedside table and rearranged it prominently on top. She kicked the sheet down to her ankles, shifted into the centre of the mattress, cradled her head on her hands and tried to do a really unconvincing impression of sleep instead. The slight chill in the air raised gooseflesh on her backside and she hoped he'd hurry up.

The door opened, and closed again. She could hear him breathing, could almost feel him scanning her body like a little tingle of static electricity on her skin. She shivered a bit. He took a big gulp of — tea, by the smell of it, and she heard him cross the room in a few paces, put his cup down on his own table and shuffle out of his slippers. The bed dipped with his weight. She shivered a bit more. They might have been together for so long she couldn't remember how it started, so long that the formality of names had rubbed away, so long that she seemed to have forgotten most of the basic details of their life, but here, in bed, on a Sunday morning, the only thing that mattered was him and her, together.

'Seeing as you asked me so nicely,' he commented, and reached across her back for the bottle. She smelt the perfume leap into the air as the lid opened, combining with the faint salt undertone of the sea. He climbed onto her hips, one leg on either side, and shunted himself back a bit so that he was sitting on her bottom. He'd gotten rid of his own pyjamas. She shivered a bit more, and it had far more to do with anticipation than the fact that he was pouring icy liquid onto her shoulders.

With firm, knowledgeable movements of his strong fingers, he worked the lotion into her back, concentrating on one shoulder blade and then the other, outlining the bones, kneading the flesh. He dug his fingers into the knots under her skin, loosening them one by one, tracing the contours of her body with oily hands. His palms, lubricated with more lotion settled on the top of her shoulders, his thumbs against her neck and he worked his way outwards and down to her elbows, manipulating her muscles until she was limp, and yielding to his touch. Her sigh of contentment was drawn from her throat but every inch of her body echoed it wordlessly.

Changing emphasis, he edged his way slowly down her spine, the ridges of each and every vertebra explored and relearnt, although he'd done this so many times he should have known them all by name. He used the long, languorous strokes she loved to tease any vestige of stress out of her lower back and she allowed herself to surrender completely to the soothing caress of his hands. She was so relaxed she could have fallen asleep again, if not for the fact that she could feel the pleasure he was giving her reflected in the heat pressing against the small of her back when he leant forward. Possibly the thing she loved most about him was the fact that he found such satisfaction in making her happy.

She arched her hips against his weight, her signal that he could stop, and he read it easily. He swung off her, stretched out full length and rolled her onto her side with a practiced authority, wrapping himself around the curves of her body. His chest against her back, his legs matching the pattern of her bent knees, he blew her hair out of the way and nuzzled her neck.

'Love you,' he breathed, as his still slippery hand came round to tug on her nipple.

She heard him hold a deep breath, shift a bit, and felt him slide home between her thighs. He didn't move for a while, joined to her with an intimate connection she felt deeper than physical penetration. His fingers played with her breast, his lips nibbled little endearments into her neck. She loved having him inside her. It didn't seem to matter how many times they had sex, how hard or how gently he took her, how often she welcomed him in, every time felt like the first time, every time still had that special once in a lifetime fragment of eternity feeling about it. She loved having him inside her, because it meant that of all the people he could have belonged to, he was hers. There was a luxurious self indulgence in watching him climax, in knowing that was a gift that only she could give him, in seeing his barriers come tumbling down for her, and her alone.

She sagged against him, relaxed into his embrace, gave her body to him again as he started to move. Although this time she couldn't see his face, she could feel his desire in the rock of his hips, the way his hand splayed across her stomach to hold her more tightly to him, the depth to which he filled her. His breath caught in his throat and the speed of his careful thrusts increased whenever he heard her sigh, at her tiniest groan, at the slightest hint of her pleasure. So she sighed maybe just a bit more heavily than she needed to, moaned just a bit too often, because she knew how important to him it was that she wanted him, needed him, belonged to him too.

Bonded together in waves of sensual motion, dictated by nothing but the carnal oblivion of intercourse, Sunday morning faltered, stretched into Sunday afternoon.

She felt him tilt inexorably into ecstasy, hot breath at her neck, pent up need released in shudders and a flood of wetness between her legs. His orgasm triggered her own and for a while she lost herself in the sound of the sea, the smell of his sweat, and the dark pulse of pleasure deep inside.

But when she opened her eyes again, she found him stiff and awkward against her — well, mostly stiff, some parts of him were distinctly not very, not any more, and given the fact that she could now remember all sorts of things that she couldn't remember before, she realised that was no bad thing. She remembered going to a party, although its owner was still a mystery, and she remembered the desperate search for his coat on top of a washing machine. His address — or the current location of his address - was still something of a concern.

'Alright,' he said evenly, and quite calmly, considering. 'The only thing I can't deal with is the slippers. What makes you imagine me in slippers? I know I'm old enough to be your grandfather but I don't want to dress like him.'

His hand was still pressed to her stomach and she wished vaguely that she'd eaten slightly less chocolate over the last week

'So this is all my imagination then is it?' she queried dangerously.

He considered. 'Slippers? Massages? Some sort of reeking slime all over my hands? Telling you I love you?' He paused significantly. 'I'm going with yes.'

'Oh, okay.' She'd have turned over to face him, just to make sure he was actually trying to blame her, if that hadn't meant removing parts of him she didn't want to think about from parts of her she was trying to pretend didn't exist. 'Seducing you in a kitchen and then touching my own…washing machine… while you watch is my idea of fun, is it?'

'Might be,' he returned, defensive now and sounding slightly embarrassed.

'What — exactly — is going on?' she demanded, resolutely ignoring any explanation that had the word 'sex' and the phrase 'with the Doctor' in it.

He sighed, and it was an effort to stop herself shivering at the delicate breath pouring softly into her ear. 'Best guess? We've been captured. We're in some sort of really rudimentary telepathic cage and we're supposed to be so busy living in our imaginary worlds that we don't notice. We must be linked together somehow to make it more realistic.'

She attempted to maintain a professionally detached tone as something hot and sticky dribbled over the inside of her thigh. 'So what you're saying,' she answered slowly, 'is that somewhere, you're imagining doing…laundry… with me.'

There was a short silence. 'And you're imagining being on 'holiday' with me,' he answered — defining 'holiday' as a sweep of his hand up her body and a couple of fingers toying expertly with her nipple. 'And I'm not the one imagining slippers.'

She thought of a question to distract herself from imagining why he was imagining what he was imagining, and the fact that she was now imagining his fingers at work on her other breast. 'But didn't we try to escape after the party? And how come I couldn't remember anything and now I can?'

'Well,' he admitted slowly, starting with a bit of light squeezing. 'We did spend quite a long time trying out some more — ah — programmes on that machine after we remembered. Maybe we gave them too much warning. And I think,' his voice dropped and the next sentence came out in a rush. 'I think that every time we hit the spin cycle our bodies release enough natural chemicals to disrupt whatever signals we're supposed to be getting and we remember who we are.'

'So am I imagining you doing what you're doing with your hand right now?' Her breath was starting to come in little short gulps, and she was trying desperately to imagine him being a bit less good at doing what he was doing to her breasts with his fingers.

'Ummmm, I think I might be imagining me doing that too,' he said, not stopping the slightly harder squeezing.

From the place she wasn't thinking about that should be vacant but was currently still occupied she had the sneaking suspicion he was thinking about putting another load on. Clearly he had a lot of washing still to do. As far as she was concerned, it was still only Sunday afternoon and there was a whole half a day left to look forward to.

'So — none of this is real then?' she asked and she really couldn't stop her hips pressing back into his, halt her chest arching forward to fill his palm more closely.

'Almost certainly not,' he answered, and his lips brushed the side of her throat once, and came back in for more.

'And as long as we don't stop imagining this we can work out an escape plan?' She couldn't help thinking about the place she wasn't thinking about, because it had gone from nearly empty to full, to tightly, securely, warmly overfull in the space of a few short minutes.

He started work on her earlobe. 'Haven't been able to stop imagining this for months,' he murmured, trailing his hand down between her thighs. 'Just let me know when you want to start escaping.'

She snaked her leg backwards over his hip, felt his fingers spreading, exploring, finding the right place to rub. 'You first,' she managed.

Read my books The Postman's Daughter and The Car Crash Bride by Sally Anne Palmer available now on Amazon.


	3. Chapter 3

Rose Tyler was escaping. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to be escaping from, or why she had to do it in such a ridiculously tight black dress, but she was escaping nonetheless.

She opened her eyes to find herself stretched, spread-eagled on her back and lying on something metal and uncomfortable. She tested her arms and legs, found they were still in working order and sat up, remembering to be surprised that she didn't appear to be restrained in any way. There were, in fact, enormous restraints like giant crab claws fixed to the oversized table she'd been lying on, but whoever she was escaping from was obviously either lazy or stupid, because they weren't locked and she could slip her limbs out of them easily.

With a quick glance round she saw that she had blundered into the middle of Doctor Frankenstein's wet dream by mistake. The room she was in could only be a laboratory, and was definitely owned by someone wearing a white coat and a name badge reading 'mad scientist'. There was some sort of huge machine with a pointed end levelled at where her head had been, taking up the majority of the ceiling space and hooked up to two gigantic metal coils covered in wires and connectors that snaked down from the roof. There had to be lightening conductors involved somewhere. On benches around all four sides of the chamber were stacked a variety of half built machines, cliché ridden steaming beakers of brightly bubbling liquids, books, books and more books, and the odd half eaten sandwich. The air practically rang with maniac laughter.

She decided escaping was a brilliant idea, hopped off the table, and promptly twisted her ankle. Looking down past the shortness of the dress that barely covered her bottom, past her legs, uncovered by anything as useful as tights, or even stockings, she saw she was wearing a pair of immensely high heels. Wicked black stilettos, of the kind you might pick up for a laugh in a shoe shop but knew you'd never wear unless you actually wanted to end up in the accident and emergency wing having your leg reset by a not very sympathetic doctor. Which reminded her that she usually escaped as part of a pair, and the other half of the dynamic duo was unlikely to be sympathetic if she escaped without him.

She slipped off her shoes, wincing a bit at the coldness of the floor and set off at a gentle jog towards the doorway. She had to stop halfway there to put her chest away, because for some very good and probably fashion related reason she wasn't wearing a bra and the cut of her dress could have limboed under a 'low cut' sign. She was also not wearing any knickers. She was even more convinced that she was part of Doctor Frankenstein's wet dream, because what self respecting mad scientist didn't also keep a scantily clad maiden with her hair flapping all over her face around to help with the screaming parts?

Wrestling with the giant handle of the door she managed to heave it open, although it did make a comedy creaking noise and crash back against the wall with an ear shattering thud. This wasn't turning out to be the smoothest escape she'd ever made.

Tiptoeing into the corridor, stilettos in hand, she was faced with dull metal walls and a line of spotlights in the ceiling, casting pools of brilliance onto the floor of a corridor that stretched away in both directions. She had no clue where to go, but she could vaguely hear the sound of shouting coming from the right, so she turned left and ran as fast as she could in the opposite direction. After a couple of minutes the shouts got louder, and she had to run faster, pelting down the endless corridor until, from out of nowhere, a hand fastened on her elbow and hauled her off out of sight.

The Doctor was escaping. He was having to do it in black tie, which made this a far better class of escape than usual. Unfortunately, this meant he was also having to do it without the aid of the sonic screwdriver or any of the other useful things he kept in his leather coat, which was making escaping a lot more difficult, and had put him in quite a bad mood.

It had taken him at least of couple of hours to work out how to rig up an override for the blank metal door in the blank metal wall in the blank metal room he'd woken up in, a room in which all handy bits of wire or machinery or controls had been hidden behind efficient panels that were nearly impossible to open. He'd split his fingernails opening them.

Now, just when he'd made his silent, unnoticed escape, and was creeping silently down a corridor trying to be silent and looking for Rose, she came hurtling past him making as much noise as possible with an awful lot of shouting on her tail. He sighed, silently, and wished he'd taught her the rudimentary elements of escaping a bit better. There was running, and then there was hiding, and right now, hiding was a safer option.

He reached out to grab her as she flashed past and, feeling a door handle behind him, he yanked her into whatever hiding place he'd managed to find. Slamming the door shut, he concentrated on listening for sounds of pursuit, or discovery outside, which was difficult, because Rose was out of breath and her chest was heaving as she panted.

The room they were in was an exceedingly small cupboard, smaller than a cupboard even, with just enough room for two people to stand upright, as long as they were really good friends and didn't mind touching each other quite a lot. Rose's chest was still heaving, but from outside the Doctor could distinctly hear the sound of voices raised in anger and the heavy tramp of guards making their presence known. Shifting around a bit, he raised a hand, put one finger to her lips to indicate the need for complete silence.

Then, because he was feeling like a gentleman, what with the black tie, he swept a hand down her arm and retrieved the strap of her dress, pushing it back onto her shoulder and hiding the sight of her heaving chest, gleaming in the ambient lighting. His palm grazed the side of her breast as he covered it up, and she stopped breathing very quickly indeed.

They were so close he could feel her shiver. He put his back to the door to make sure no one would open it, and scanned the room hurriedly, finding no way out apart from a panel fixed to the ceiling, and a similar bit of metal bolted to the floor. Other than that, there was nothing else in the room, nothing but Rose, right in front of him, staring at him with huge eyes, and Rose's body, pressing into his chest with an insistent softness.

There was something digging into his leg, and looking lower, once he'd got his eyes away from all the flesh on show in her flattering dress, he saw she was holding a pair of very sharp shoes. He motioned at her to put them down, and then quickly put his finger back on her lips when she showed signs of just dropping them to the floor with an inevitable clatter.

Instead, ever so slowly, she bent to place the heels on the floor, sliding her breasts all the way down his body and then all the way back up as she straightened. She put her hands on his shoulders for balance while she felt around with her bare feet and slipped the shoes back on. He found himself looking at her lips, at the shine of her lips in the dim light and wondered what it might be like to kiss her. Kissing was not going to help with escaping, he decided although with her shoes on she was very nearly the same height as him, and that gave him an idea.

He leaned forward and breathed very softly into her ear. 'I'm going to lift you up — see if you can get the panel in the roof open.'

He felt her shiver against him and hoped she wouldn't do it again because in the rush for black tie, and probably for some very sound fashion related reason, he seemed to have neglected to put on any underwear and his trousers were altogether too thin.

She nodded, and he put his hands on her waist, boosting her upwards as she raised her arms with difficulty above her head. He held her there for a while but it wasn't easy, not because she was heavy, but because he was getting a faceful of cleavage and a mindful of smut. She struggled with the fastenings of the panel, pushing different parts of her anatomy against his cheeks and his mind degenerated into filth.

'I can't shift it,' she whispered, looking down at him with her hair falling all over his face and reluctantly, he let her slide her way back down his body.

Her hands were still on his shoulders when she hit the floor and he saw her eyes widen as she also hit the part of him that had shifted and was now demonstrating quite how thin his trousers were. He felt himself blush, and decided to escape.

'Stand still,' he hissed and gently, trying to keep as far away from her as possible, knelt to try the panel on the floor.

She was standing on it. One of her feet, in those wonderfully high, sexy shoes was placed delicately right on top of the bolt holding it fixed to the floor. He was going to have to move her leg to get at the screw. He tapped her calf significantly. She didn't move. He tried pushing her knee to the side, but she just tensed up and wouldn't shift. Eventually, he had to put his hand against inner edge of her thigh, below the swaying beads at the bottom of her skirt and exert a light pressure.

With his hand nearly up her dress he felt her shiver again, and then she got the idea, and opened her legs so he could work at the bolt. He bent his head, having to rest it against her bare legs to see what he was doing. He tried to ignore the shapely swell of her ankle, the way her foot curved in a graceful arch into those shoes as he bruised his nails on the floor.

One bolt free, he turned to the second corner, to find her leg on that one as well. This time he didn't hesitate. He put both hands on her thighs, feeling the dress against his fingers, and made her spread her legs for him, pushing her hips back against the wall, so he could start escaping.

Except that with him kneeling at her feet, and his hands between her open legs, he could see that she wasn't wearing any underwear. Without taking his hands away, he looked up at her, saw that she was staring down at him fixedly and that she'd braced her hands against the door on the far wall. Her chest was heaving again, the breath rattling harshly through her nose.

He raised his hands a little higher, beneath her skirt and watched her shut her eyes tight and open her mouth, panting harder. He slid his hands a bit higher, so that he could feel hair against his fingers, hair and a hot, damp moistness. Gingerly, he inched her skirt up higher until he could see her lack of underwear, could watch it waver forwards as she breathed, could sense its welcome.

He kissed it. He put his head underneath her half raised skirt and he kissed her there, where her legs were split apart for him, where dampness throbbed in sweet corners, waiting to be found. He opened his mouth, kissed her again, a longer, lingering kiss this time, his lips pressed to her ready warmth, kissing with passion, and desire, and a hint of tongue. He closed his own eyes, pressed his face forwards, kneeled a bit straighter, and turned the hint into a conversation.

He curled his tongue inside her folds, heard her gasp, too loudly, and then began to lick. He rubbed the tip of his tongue delicately across her flesh, tasting her, drawing her in, and then peeled her apart with his fingers and slid his tongue up, up in steady determined strokes, working the whole flat blade of it against her softness. She made little mewling noises and he found he could taste her more acutely.

He pushed his face into her, covering his cheeks with her wetness, so he could suck on her clit, suck on it hard, a concentrated pressure applied to the heart of her pleasure and then released. He poked his tongue into her again, tracing circles in precise patterns inside her body, then shoved his face between her legs and after a couple of minutes of steady licking found her inner flesh swollen and sore when he nipped it with his teeth.

He was enjoying himself. His jaw was aching, the skin around his mouth was stinging a bit but Rose's taste was in the back of his throat, and Rose's body was trembling under the lash of his tongue. He lashed her with it a bit more, and abruptly, her whole body shook, her hips came forward off the wall, knocking his mouth away as she came.

He clambered to his feet, taking care to keep one hand fixed within her, rubbing at the spot he'd been kissing to make her come harder, while his other hand dropped his trousers to the floor. He removed the fist she had clamped in her mouth to stifle her cries and let her feel his naked hardness against her leg. She looked like she was going to speak for a minute, and then just nodded.

He stopped touching her, moved his hand to grab her bottom and then forced his way inside her instead. She was slick, ready and relaxed enough to take him in, and he bent his legs to get a bit more leverage. She was gasping out loud now and he had to stick his tongue down her throat to silence the noises she made as he stuck his cock between her legs. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he did his best to make her come again, heaving against her, banging her hips back against the wall, jerking towards a stupendous climax that was just out of reach.

He groaned, loudly, and a knocking, which grew steadily into a pounding, and then the sound of someone trying to kick the door in quickly followed. He couldn't stop them, because he was busy having a stupendous climax inside Rose, as she clung on for the ride.

It was only when he finished that he realised she was laughing. Then he realised why.

Rose Tyler was not escaping. She'd known it as soon as the Doctor had stopped doing lovely things to her with his lovely tongue but she'd decided it was far more fun to let him find out for himself. Doctor Frankenstein's wet dream laboratory was only a figment of her imagination, but there was another Doctor, and another wet dream going on.

She laughed as the voyeuristic guards hauled him out into the corridor by the back of his tuxedo and he bent down with as much dignity as possible to regain the safety of his trousers.

'Is this how you imagine an escape then?' she giggled.

He seemed hurt by that. 'I didn't imagine myself in fancy dress if that's what you mean.' He plucked at his jacket disparagingly although she thought he looked much  
better in it.

'Oh no,' she was still chuckling as she was prodded in the back down the corridor. 'This dress, and these heels and no knickers — that's your idea. And I'm betting that you get a kick out of small enclosed places too, because that's the second time you've had me in a cupboard. And that explains why you've never bothered fixing the TARDIS.'

She heard him snort behind her, and took care to sashay grandly in front of him as they were marched back to the captivity they'd never escaped.

'So me on my knees isn't something you've ever fantasised about?' he queried, although it sounded like he was smiling.

Her laugh was musical. 'Didn't hear you complaining.'

'I was too busy to complain,' he complained, cracking his jaw. 'Getting caught does nothing for me either.'

'Liar,' she said, giving him a quick flash of her bare behind as she turned into an imaginary vacant cell with a couple of imaginary guards on either side. She was still remembering his stupendous climax.

His throaty chuckle told her he was remembering it too.

'Next time, try imagining that you actually want to escape,' she called as the door slammed shut.

Read my books The Car Crash Bride and The Postman's Daughter, by Sally Anne Palmer, available now on Amazon, on Kindle or in print.


	4. Chapter 4

Rose fell into bed exhausted on the happiest evening of the happiest day of her life. She only knew it was the happiest day of her life because people had been telling her so all day and therefore it must be true. She struggled a bit with the various hooks and eyes of her enormous white dress before getting frustrated and just ripping it off over head, to be followed by the floor length veil and the horrid white shoes she'd never wear again.

She was married. There was a ring on her finger to prove it. This was the happiest day of her life.

Her new husband was busy having the happiest day of his life carousing with his friends somewhere, having promised to be 'back in a second' and 'just going to say goodbye' at least three hours ago. She didn't really blame him, it had been a difficult day.

Firstly, there was the problem of the guest list. She'd only allowed him to bring a handful of his more normal looking friends and she'd had to seat them away from her various aunts, uncles, cousins, cousins' boyfriends, cousins' boyfriends' best mates and the thousands of so called friends her mother had picked up over the years. The Doctor's friends had spent the whole night muttering darkly together about aliens and inbreeding and casting sidelong glances at her relations. Her extended family, and extended people who seemed to have wandered in off the street had packed out the Powell Estate Working Men's Club, all curious to see if Rose could actually drag her reluctant boyfriend down the aisle after nearly seven years of trying.

Secondly, and because she'd insisted on getting married on Earth just to prove beyond all doubt that he had really and truly married her, there was the problem of his name. He claimed to have mislaid his birth certificate and they'd argued for months about how to get another one before he'd stuck in a pin in the phonebook and gone back in time to get one forged. It claimed he was thirty one, which her mother had made many sarcastic remarks about, and it also meant that technically, she was now Mrs Patel. She didn't care, as long as everyone she knew stopped throwing her pitying glances and asking if she was thinking of settling down.

The baby woke her at three am. Its father was still not back to look after it, so she had to feed and change it herself before dropping back into bed and listening to it cry for at least another hour.

By any human standard the baby was old enough to go to school, but being only half human and half intergalactic time travelling immortal alien it was still stuck in the feeding/crying/changing routine and showed no sign of growing up. When asked, its absent father was inclined to shrug and mutter something indistinct about an extended childhood and there not being any rules, before unaccountably finding another planet to go and save. Or a shed to sit in.

For the first six months, he'd been a model parent, building mini sonic screwdrivers for his son to instantly smash and then try and eat. His interest had waned rapidly over the next four and a half years of babydom though, particularly after that nasty incident with the backpack.

She'd convinced him that the baby would cry less if he took it out more and showed it the universe so he'd spent some time constructing a complicated carrier arrangement that meant the baby could sit against his back and with any luck, be sick on him. The first time he'd used it, they'd run into the Daleks. Despite having — literally- had a sense of humour bypass, the Daleks had laughed at him. Laughed so hard they'd forgotten to try to kill anyone and made lots of pointed remarks about the oncoming nappy, and when the junior Doctor might be getting stabilisers for the TARDIS. The baby sick rolling off the bottom of his father's coat had not helped. Since then she'd taken on almost all of the childcare responsibilities herself.

At nearly five am her new husband returned, and, for a man who claimed to have such an advanced biochemistry that alcohol never affected him, he was doing a good impression of being drunk. He crashed into the bedroom, making far too much noise and scattered his clothes all over the floor in random piles as usual. He clambered into bed, and almost immediately clambered on top of her, so she spread her legs and let him get on with it.

When they'd fallen in love — years ago now — they'd barely been able to keep their hands off each other and every new planet was just an excuse for a new place to have sex. Nearly seven years and a baby later, he exercised his now formal conjugal rights about once a week, unless she was too tired, which was quite often. Grunting, he finished, and rolled over, while she cleaned herself up. He seemed a bit more alert afterwards, which was unusual, since she was normally presented with his snoring back.

'Rose?' he asked clearly.

'Sssh — you'll wake the baby. He's only just gone to sleep.'

'I've got a son?' he asked wonderingly and she had to slap his chest.

'Oh come on — you can't be that drunk. And don't think I'm going to let you conveniently forget getting married either.'

She watched him tilt his finger and its sparkly new ring into the light. 'No chance of that,' he remarked. 'But humour me. I've got a son — what's his name?'

She sighed. 'Don't start that again. My grandfather was very proud of being called Trevor and I don't see why our son…' She trailed off, because he was laughing so hard the bed was shaking.

'Trevor?' he gasped eventually, and very loudly, and the aforementioned child went from sleep into shouting the place down in nanoseconds. 'Trevor the Time Lord?'

'Now look what you've done,' she said accusingly, hurrying to the cot.

There was a banging on the wall and Jackie's voice penetrated shrilly despite the mini Time Lord howling. 'Keep the bloody noise down!'

The Doctor sat up. 'Jackie's in the TARDIS?' he asked with a frown she could hear in the semi darkness.

'Of course,' replied Rose. 'She lives here. She helps me with the baby when you're swanning off. Where have you been anyway?'

Her husband bounded out of bed with more enthusiasm than she'd seen from him in a very long time, crossed the room, kissed her cheek and patted the baby's head. 'Rose — you're a genius. I might have to marry you again.'

And he was off, bouncing out of the room and whistling like this was the happiest day of his life.

Rose woke up to find a hand over her mouth, which was quite terrifying, until the Doctor hissed in her ear.

'It's me. We're escaping. Again. Now sit up and keep quiet.'

When he had that tone on it was always better just to obey without question. She sat up. She tried to sit up anyway, but her stomach muscles appeared to have escaped some time earlier and she could do little more than raise her head.

'Is that the best you can do?' he whispered incredulously. 'I know you've been lying down for a while but that's the most useless escape I've ever seen.'

Annoyance spurred her into another try and she rolled over and found herself flopping inelegantly onto the floor. He made no attempt to catch her. 'Ouch,' she said, trying to rub her elbows, knees and all the other sticky out bits she could think of.

'Oh, for goodness sake.' He sounded fairly exasperated and then fairly out of breath as he hauled her to her feet by main force and heaved her over his shoulder in a textbook fireman's lift.

It wasn't a great escape. Or a very quiet one as he kicked the door to her cell open, caromed off down the corridor smacking her head against the wall at frequent intervals. Luckily, their captors were either really poor gaolers or had just got sick of having prisoners who were constantly dreaming about sex because the TARDIS was carefully concealed in plain sight just a few short paces down the hall. He struggled to find his key, struggled to unlock the door (festooned with new scratches), struggled to close it, had real difficulty in setting the co-ordinates for anywhere else that wasn't a prison and then stomped off to Rose's room, still carrying her over one shoulder. He had no problems bashing her head on the walls again, or muttering unfavourable remarks about sacks of potatoes and too many chips.

He dumped her unceremoniously on her bed and turned to leave.

'Hang on a second,' she said, managing to push off her shoes and fumbling with the zip of her top. 'Where do you think you're rushing off to?'

He did a good rabbit-in-the-headlights impression, a slight colour rising to his cheeks as he saw her wriggle out of her top and hoist her bra off with a manoeuvre that wouldn't have disgraced a contortionist. 'I'm going to check there's no damage, although why they didn't just steal the key I have no idea.' He paused. 'What are you doing?'

She was fiddling enthusiastically with the fly of her jeans. 'Well — I'm lying on my bed and I'm practically helpless, being stared at by a man whose name I don't know. Seems like a good opportunity for you to ravish me a bit, don't you think?'

He cleared his throat. Her trousers and knickers were somewhere in the region of her knees, but she was having trouble getting them any lower without a fully functioning set of legs and there was an awful lot of rolling around going on.

'You want me to what-ish you?' he asked carefully, clearly noting every single part of the rolling.

She got her jeans off at last and sighed happily. 'It's one of my all time favourite fantasies. Well, that one and the one where I've got you stripped and handcuffed to the bed and you can't talk - that's a close second. So, in this one, a tall dark handsome stranger walks in to find me naked and I'm powerless to resist, or I don't want to resist anyway. You might want to tie me up a bit too, later.'

She succeeded in draping a hand seductively across her face.

'Do I have to wear any sort of…costume?' he asked dubiously.

'Pirate? Highwayman?' she suggested. 'Burglar? You'd be very good at picking locks. But I'd rather you didn't wear anything at all. As quickly as possible, please.'

He looked down at her, looked away, and then looked down at her again. 'Seeing as you asked me so nicely,' he shrugged. 'What sort of thing do you want me to say? 'Prepare to be boarded' sounds a bit cheesy, and 'arrrrggghhh' probably comes later,' he offered, slinging off his coat and his jumper with it. 'Your money or your…' He considered, perching himself on the bed beside her and removing his shoes and socks. 'No, there's nothing I can finish that sentence with that isn't completely filthy.'

She tittered in a high pitched girly voice. 'Oh no sir, please - no filth. I'm just a poor virtuous maiden. Consider my chastity.' Her chastity was wide open and waiting for him to give it some serious consideration.

He jerked his trousers down and climbed over the bed to cover her, nudging her legs apart with his knees. 'How about breaking and…' he grunted. 'Entering?'

She laughed brokenly, in fits and starts around the whoosh of breath out of her lungs every time he bore down hard. Which was quite often, and got more often as he warmed up and really embraced the role. When he finally rolled off her, panting, she considered herself well and truly ravished, and a lot less chaste.

She waited a bit. She waited a bit more. 'So when do we start escaping then?' she asked eventually.

He raised himself on one elbow and raked her with a disgusted gaze. 'If you think that was imaginary you clearly aren't putting in the effort.' He retrieved the belt from his jeans and used it to secure her still floppy arms above her head. 'I had a nightmare, woke up, got free, rescued you and we escaped about an hour ago.' He licked his lips. 'You, however, aren't getting out of this for some time.'

Here is a synopsis of my book, The Postman's Daughter, which is available on Amazon, in case you feel like a bit more romance:

Late in 1916, in a London menaced by the threat of German attack, Ivy Drummond is rescued from an air raid by a stranger who knows both when and where the bombs will fall. Will Rawlings – sent home from the front and suffering from shellshock – is tortured by nightmares and hallucinations. Will believes he can see the future. Ivy believes he needs medical help. But when Will's visions start coming true Ivy is torn between family, duty, honour and love.. And Will is keeping secrets which threaten to pull their relationship apart. Against the backdrop of real events, The Postman's Daughter tells the story of two people left behind by the Great War, fighting their own personal battle for happiness.


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